


can't quit you

by purplehedgehogskies



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew is very worried and scared for a minute but it's OKAY EVERYTHING IS FINE, Anxiety, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Neil is fine, Post-Graduation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, cigarettes and the smoking of them, domestic fluff with a dose of light angst, soft andreil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplehedgehogskies/pseuds/purplehedgehogskies
Summary: When Neil doesn't come home from his run and Andrew hears sirens down the road, he tries not to think the worst.





	can't quit you

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr hc I wrote a long time ago that i just...decided to expand because why not. if it seems familiar that's why.  
> Also I think they're a little ooc? maybe? it's just some softness and idc what Nora says at this point I want them to be SOFT because they DESERVE IT

Every morning, sometimes early enough that the sun had not started to ooze between the blinds and spill onto the bedroom carpet, Neil went for a run. Barring illness, injury, and the occasional morning kiss that turned into more, Neil spent the first hour or so of his day alternating between jogging and sprinting around the Pittsburgh suburb he and Andrew called home.

Every morning, after Neil threw on his running clothes—sometimes the ones from yesterday that were thrown over a chair back—he would turn back to the bed to find himself locked in Andrew’s golden gaze. Most often, Andrew would look at Neil expectantly until he shuffled to the bedside, close enough to be yanked down for a kiss, and then Andrew would roll over and close his eyes again. Other days, he bitched at Neil for waking him up and called him the same old names he always had. Sometimes, he rolled out of bed when Neil did, trudging into the living room with a cat or two at his heels and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders—Neil would find him in the living room and kiss Andrew and both cats before he left, and then smile to himself on the way out the door.

This morning, Andrew’s eyes followed him across the room. As soon as he’d gotten his arms through the sleeves of his worn tank top and pulled it down over his torso, Neil sidled up to the bed and leaned over, whispering, “Yes or no?”

Neil knew the answer, saw it in Andrew’s eyes, but asked anyway.

“Yeah,” Andrew said, voice rough with sleep, as he hooked his hand in the scooping neckline of Neil’s shirt and pulled him down. Their lips met in a slow, easy dance—like swaying in the middle of the living room to soft notes on the radio instead of gyrating to a pounding sound system. Neil had tried dancing at the club, at banquets and weddings, on LED dancefloors and exy courts. He vastly preferred easy listening stations and his bare feet shuffling on the rug, coffee table pushed aside with Sir or King in his arms—Andrew would look on and say Neil was ridiculous, and sometimes he’d move in close to take the cat’s place.

Neil remembered a time when kisses didn’t feel like slow dancing, but were a different kind of amazing—raw and passionate, though there was always something careful about them. Their kisses were moments of vulnerability that felt stark in contrast to a life of keeping on guard, but somehow Neil kept saying yes. He kept saying yes to Andrew and it had led him here, to a life he thought he’d never have; a kitchen that Andrew could cook in, photographs of their family hanging on the walls, Sinatra on the radio and something warm living between them, something gentle and good and as innate as breathing.

“I gotta go, I’m late already,” Neil mumbled into the kiss, sighing when Andrew slid a hand up through his hair.

“Running around the neighborhood is hardly a _very important date_ , rabbit,” Andrew said, but he released Neil all the same and burrowed back beneath the Foxes throw blanket that was thin enough for the warming temperatures of mid-spring.

“See you,” said Neil, drawing the curtains over the window to block the sun from stretching further into the room and into Andrew’s eyes while he dozed. Andrew made a grunt-like sound in acknowledgment and Neil left the bedroom, pocketing his phone and keys on his way out.

Before beginning his run, Neil warmed up by walking around the block, slow at first while he pushed his hair from his eyes with his bandana, and then faster. As he reached the final corner, he broke into a jog and left everything behind but the sweet burn of muscles and the pounding of his feet against the pavement. He ran for longer than he thought he would, making it a few miles from home before looping back and slowing when he spotted the lights of their favored supermarket. Nestled between two vacant lots, the store was a beacon—the sky was still dim, the suns rays still tucked behind a horizon of foliage and rooftops.

Andrew had gone back to sleep, and would probably still be asleep until at least seven. Neil considered sending a text to let Andrew know he’d be a little later than expected, but the notification would only wake him. Anyway, Neil was safe in this neighborhood—the feeling of security was, in part, because the neighborhood was genuinely safe. It was populated by young families and retirees who waved at Neil when he passed their yards. But part of it was that he had _learned_ to feel safe; although paranoia struck him from time to time and his contract with Ichirou still hung over his head, Neil no longer felt like he was in constant danger, no longer felt like he was being hunted for his skin.

Neil entered the supermarket through automatic sliding doors. A lone cashier stood at her register, watching him with disinterest as he paused in the doorway to wipe sweat from his forehead. The store was empty, for the most part, having only just opened; there was none of the usual supermarket sound. No cart wheels squeaking down long aisles, no humdrum chatter, no incessant beeping of cash registers.

Neil didn’t grab a basket, instead balancing everything he picked up in his hands—first, the half-gallon of milk and a tub of yogurt tucked under his arm while he balanced a dozen eggs in one hand, then pre-cut and frozen bell pepper, some sliced cheese from the deli, and a banana for the walk home clutched in his other hand. Neil spent twenty minutes in the bakery, torn between which kind of donut Andrew would prefer—chocolate? Sprinkles? Cream or jelly filled?

In the end he set down some of his groceries to pack five different kinds of donuts into a blue bakery box, then picked up everything and balanced it precariously in his arms before heading to checkout. The cashier regarded him curiously as he unceremoniously dumped his armload on her conveyer belt. When she’d scanned everything, he handed her a few wrinkled bills from his pocket and left the store.

Weighed down with bags, Neil decided to walk home; it would be a good cooldown anyway.

 ****

Andrew woke to the echoing wail of sirens. They were alarmingly close, closer than he’d ever heard them since they’d moved to this neighborhood. The sound reminded him briefly of the jagged edge of a broken bottle and blood on Aaron’s face, but he shoved the memory out of the way as he sat up in bed; the room was hazy with morning sunlight and the massive, furry shape of Sir dominated Neil’s side of the bed. 

“Get off,” said Andrew, but he didn’t do anything to move him. He threw back his covers and pulled on a hoodie that Neil had worn for maybe three hours the previous day, and then thrown on the floor near the hamper when he went to bed. _Fucker._ The hoodie was egregiously orange and smelled like Neil. Andrew drew the hood up, admitting silently to himself that it was comforting.

The sirens drew nearer. Neil wasn’t back from his run yet, and it was approaching the hour mark. Through the cracks in the blinds he could see over the roofs of the houses behind theirs and onto the next street, where the blur of blue and red collected at the far end of the block.

Andrew sent Neil a text. _Where are you._

He pulled up a website that streamed police radio chatter on his phone and went out into the living room, Sir dragging himself from the bed to follow him. He’d inevitably turn into the kitchen and stand before his dish, yowling for food, but Andrew ignored him and stood at the sliding back door, fogging up the cold glass with his breath as he listened idly.

The intersection down the street was mentioned, and he listened more carefully, picking up what he could from the garbled voices speaking in code— _male, mid-twenties, multiple stab wounds, officers in pursuit of suspect._

The intersection in question was on one of Neil’s regular routes. Andrew had walked it with him once, at a leisurely pace with his hands deep in his pockets while Neil jogged ahead, shooting glances over his shoulder that were dangerously close to amusement. It had been autumn then, when everything was dying and daylight came later and later; they’d just moved into the top unit of a duplex where the landlord was the downstairs neighbor, had just been transferred to the Polar Bears together after playing on separate teams for three seasons. Andrew remembered that the house on the northeast corner of that intersection flew a Polar Bears flag in their yard and Neil had said something sassy about it.

It was spring now, and everything was thawing over. Andrew stepped outside onto the elevated porch, tapping a pack of cigarettes against one leg while he used the other to keep King from darting outside with him. If she got out they wouldn’t see her again for a while before she pawed at the door, mewing softly, and Neil would gather her in his arms and coo like she had nothing to do with the spike in small animal carcasses found on neighbors’ lawns.

_If Neil came home._

Andrew dashed the thought before he had time to really think it and drew out his lighter, clicking it a few times before shaking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The sirens at the end of the street were ringing in Andrew’s ears. He turned the police radio off in favor of watching his phone, waiting for it to light up with a text from Neil. He refused to call, fearing someone other than Neil would answer, one of the police officers standing at the scene or a paramedic in the ambulance that was now driving away.

He was waiting for a text from Neil and not a call from the hospital.

It had been years, but he remembered Baltimore in technicolor. Sometimes he dreamt it, with different outcomes—nightmare outcomes that he didn’t want to entertain now, when he was trying so hard to convince himself it wasn’t happening again. Neil was just late, he was being stupid and not checking his phone, he was just notoriously bad at texting back. Still, the intrusive thoughts wheeled out of control, telling Andrew that Neil was hurt dying dead and there was nothing that Andrew could do to keep him safe.

Andrew smoked and listened to the birdsong, now that the sirens had faded and all that was left of the scene was the dizzying spin of the red and blue lights. His stomach turned over, and the cats were pawing at the sliding door and yelling for breakfast, and his chest started to hurt—his lungs had endured so much, holding it together through beatings and panic attacks and all his years of smoking, and he realized desperately that he wanted them to last. He wanted to live, he wanted to enjoy his life with Neil, to get old and rickety and retire together, to take care of his stupid cats and to be the uncle that spoiled Aaron’s kids just to annoy Aaron. God, he wanted to live, he wanted Neil to live—

Andrew forced the smoke out of his lungs and forced the air in. He jammed his half-spent second cigarette into the ashtray. He debated throwing the rest of the pack over the railing, but it would land in the yard below and the landlord’s daughters might find it next weekend when they stayed with him.

Behind him, he heard the retreating jingle of King’s favorite toy as she carried it off somewhere in the apartment. He thought absently that they should attach a little bell to her collar, effectively decreasing her kill count in the neighborhood next time she got out, the lithe little bastard.

The door sliding open startled Andrew, but he stood stoic and still against the porch railing, clutching his pack of cigarettes. He wouldn’t have offered one even if Neil still smoked, because he was angry; he wouldn’t take another for himself because he wouldn’t cave to the itch in his brain, in his fingers, for another hit of nicotine, for the allure of winding curls of tobacco smoke. Neil sidled up beside him, leaning his elbows against the rail and looking out onto the scene on the next street.

“What happened over there?” he asked, blithely, ignorantly, infuriatingly. What happened over there was Neil’s life flashing before Andrew’s eyes. What happened over there was the fear of being uprooted, of losing what comfort he had and progress he’d made. What happened over there was a sharp and painful reminder that Andrew cared, that Andrew _wanted_.

Andrew looked over at Neil, regrettably unable to disguise it as just a cursory glance, seeking out the proof he’s not staring at a ghost. Making sure that all of Neil’s wounds were just scars now, remnants of a past that could only hurt him in dreams; making sure that it was only sweat that soaked through his worn Palmetto tank top and not the deepening dark of bloodstains. Sated by what he saw before him—Neil was damp, disgusting, but _unhurt_ —Andrew spoke.

 “Answer your damned texts, you fuck.”  

Neil didn’t look over, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he dug around in his pocket for his phone. He typed something out, and Andrew’s buzzed against the flat wood that crowned the porch railing. The message read: _Home._

Neil thought he was so fucking cute, didn’t he? Andrew didn’t think so—he reached out and tangled his fingers in the fabric of Neil’s shirt, pulling him close enough to smell, close enough so that their hot breath mingled between them. Neil’s face changed before his eyes, taking in the way Andrew looked—as impassive as he tried to appear, Neil could pick him apart. Being known was like that; the vulnerability of it ached, and his chest hurt, and he wished that he could quit. Smoking would be easy enough to give up; it was all this caring and wanting and loving that made him feel so fucking _weak_ ; it was Neil that was making him feel weak, and he hated every second of it.

“Andrew,” said Neil.

Whatever had been hanging in suspension dropped, whatever cord had been pulled taught snapped—in a perfect world, where everything went Andrew’s way, he wouldn’t tell Neil. He might mention what happened across the way, but not what he had thought. Not what he felt.

Things did not go his way.

“I thought you were dead,” Andrew said, letting go of Neil. He turned and crossed the porch in one stride, yanking open the sliding door just long enough for him to step inside, closing it behind him in a barely there attempt to put space between himself and Neil, between himself and all the things he’d felt while he stood there waiting. He could see the corner of a blue bakery box in the kitchen, so he went there, throwing open the box.

He’d eaten four and of the donuts before he heard Neil open the door, and was halfway through the fifth when he came into the kitchen with Sir at his heels.

“I checked the news,” said Neil. He sat on the spinning barstool on the other side of the counter and turned back and forth a little, just to expend some of his energy. He could never sit on one of those damned chairs and not wiggle around on it like a child, and Andrew thought it was the most ridiculous thing. “They don’t really have anything yet.”

“Yeah,” said Andrew. “They usually don’t. Not this soon.”

“Do you know anything about it? What made you think—”

“One of your routes. The scanner said the vic was a jogger in his twenties,” Andrew shrugged. “And you’ve always been shit at staying out of trouble.”

“I’m fine,” said Neil. Andrew thought it should anger him that he used the words he used too often; he’d said he was fine when he was slammed against the wall during their game last weekend, he’d said he was fine when he fucked up his arm last year during the playoffs, he’d said he was fine when he was a freshman at Palmetto and he thought he’d die before the end of the year.

This time, Andrew let it slide. This time, Neil _was_ fine. He looked at Neil’s stupid face, his stupid beautiful face, and remembered the liar, the problem, the pipe dream. He’d thought nothing would ever mean anything to him, and then Neil had come along and meant something.

None of this was new. He’d gone over it with Bee, and with his new therapist, and with Neil, sometimes, while they lay together in the dark with his hand on Neil’s cheek or rubbing at the stubble on the underside of Neil’s jaw, while Neil pushed his hand up through Andrew’s hair or splayed it casually against the back of his shoulders.

He remembered the session where the new therapist had asked why he never seemed to say that he loved Neil. He hadn’t answered, but on a call with Betsy later he managed explain that he told Neil how he felt every day without saying a word about it. Neil _knew_.

Neil didn’t say he was sorry, only, “I’ll try to check my phone more.”

Andrew didn’t say he had been afraid, only, “Good thing you’re still kicking. These fucking cats would starve without you.”

“You would feed them.”

He would.

Andrew laid his hand out on the counter, palm down. Neil set his own on top. They didn’t tangle their fingers together or move to touch anywhere else; this was enough for now.

“You smell,” Andrew said after a few minutes. “Shower.”

Neil smirked and removed his hand, standing from the barstool. Before leaving, he took out the frosting-covered paper and napkins from within the donut box so he could throw them out and fold down the box for recycling. Andrew watched as he went to the can with the foot lever to discard the trash, his eyebrows lifting when he looked inside.

“I won’t tell Kevin,” said Neil, covering the abandoned cigarette box with the garbage in his hands and letting the lever go. Andrew watched him round the corner, King jingling after him with her toy in her mouth. He listened as Neil shooed her away from the bathroom door but she mewled softly at the rejection and he let her in so she could sit on the closed toilet lid while he showered.

Sir made a sound of discontent and Andrew opened the cabinet where they kept the wet food. He picked up a can of Sir’s favored salmon bits and crouched low, so that Sir could approach and sniff at the can. The wet food was supposed to be a treat, but Andrew was known to give it to the cats more often than recommended. Especially Sir, who was less of a menace.

“Do you think you can eat this before they’re done in there?”

Sir blinked, and Andrew stood to fish the can opener out of the drawer.

Later, Neil opened the cabinet and Andrew watched as his brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything about the missing can of salmon. 


End file.
